Wilting Flower
by thebaffledking
Summary: Several years after Gatsby's tragic death, Daisy finally musters the courage to visit his grave. Gatsby/Daisy one-shot. Might very well turn into a rather lengthy story about Daisy and Gatsby's initial meeting/romance in 1917.


Daisy Buchanan had, over the years, become disenchanted with the nefarious game of bewitching people via her charm and elegance with the sole intention of using her suitors' affections as a means of remedying her loneliness. Time had instilled within her a wayward sort of wisdom that she had lacked in her youth. It was for that reason that she now knelt upon the damp, earthy ground of Prospect Cemetery, her head bowed in guilt laden submission to her past mistakes.

She was swathed in a demure, pale green dress that clung to her petite frame. Daisy had acquired a penchant for the color green, though she'd subconsciously refused to acknowledge why she'd initiated such a seemingly mundane habit. She, much like the rest of the women born during the 1900s, had not conformed to the changes of modern society; the deep-rooted sense of equity and style that she'd adapted during the Roaring Twenties had yet to wither and dwindle. Time had done little to detract from her innate grace and beauty; with the exception of a few wrinkles and the inevitable grey hue that merged with her golden tresses, her ageless loveliness remained untouched. There was, however, a sad emptiness that festered within the blue depths of her eyes and bespoke of a life filled with decadence, impulse, and tragedy. It was those unfortunate calamities that had compelled her, a lonely, widowed woman, to visit the place that she had avoided for the past three decades.

Grudgingly, she tilted her head upward, reading the gravestone's epitaph in a detached, impersonal sort of manner. The decayed, faded indentations of the inscription seemed to scorn her with blatant accusation and ridicule. Timidly and with hesitant uncertainty, she reached out, the tips of her slim fingers tracing over the worn inscription with exquisite care.

**JAMES GATZ **

She felt an acute sense of loss as she always did when that vile yet beloved name – as well as the memories that were associated with it – was brought to the forefront of her attention. His name echoed in the black stillness of her mind. Terrible regrets assailed her whilst a bitter, cold despair lurked in the caves of her lonely soul, feeding off of the false sense of justification and righteousness that she'd acquired in hopes of expunging her sins.

She noted distantly that there was no caption underneath his name; no soliloquy about his greatness or success, no excerpt about how much he was loved. No 'loving husband' or 'caring father.' There was nothing that bespoke of his acquired wealth (albeit _corruptly _acquired wealth). There was no dedication to the hardships that he'd overcome or success that he'd attained. Anybody who wandered through this graveyard and happened upon James Gatz's tomb would think that he was little more than "Mr. Nobody from Nowhere," as Daisy's late husband had once so delicately put it.

At the memory of Tom Buchanan and his florid, self-satisfied face that seemed to always mock the world, Daisy grimaced, a hot, despondent tear trickling down the side of her face. Immediately, she rejected any thoughts concerning her deceased husband, averting her present attention to the man she had so recklessly loved. She had wasted too many precious moments on Tom Buchanan; the focus of such moments should've revolved around James Gatz, who now lay dead and long forgotten with not so much as one sentence to bring to light the many wonderful things that he had given to the world.

A sharp pang of guilt lanced through Daisy, a raw and primitive grief overwhelming her as she brooded over the possibilities of the past. She knew that she was partially – if not wholly – accountable for this man's death. If not for the destructive whirlwind of catastrophe that she and Tom had so carelessly initiated, James Gatz would right now be hosting a lavish party of utter extravagance. Instead, his corpse lay buried under layers of soil, never to be remembered or commemorated.

Removing her fingers from the worn outline of the name of the man that had turned her sheltered little world upside down, Daisy reached beside her, picking up the single white rose that she'd brought with her. She held the rose with exquisite care, placing it delicately upon the platform of the tombstone. She studied the rose for a long while before she timidly reached out with one trembling hand, her fingers dragging across the stem of the rose, tracing its petals.

She supposed that, in many ways, the rose resembled her volatile relationship with James. The stem of the flower, so strong and stable, was much like Jay: strong, dependable, unwavering and vital. The superb beauty of the flower, however, lay within its petals. Much like the petals of a rose, Daisy was fragile and beautiful, but effortlessly detached. As easily as the petals of a rose fell from its stem, Daisy was able to remove herself from the loving embrace of Gatsby.

Her appraisal of the flower that she cradled between trembling hands wrought havoc on her mind, and it was all she could do to keep from recalling the bliss she'd experienced when being held in the arms of a man who'd loved her better and with more passion than any other living soul. She lucidly remembered the rainy, dreary day that she and Jay had been reunited in 1922. She remembered dozens upon dozens of white roses that decorated every surface of Nick Carraway's house. She remembered James Gatz waltzing into that room, anxiety and trepidation radiating from him. She remembered how dashing and utterly rich Jay had looked clad in a white flannel suit. Above all things, though, she remembered his agonizingly handsome face - a face that was furthermore complemented by a frame of sandy blond hair, eyes that made the ocean look pale and lifeless, and a smile that bespoke of compassion and understanding.

The romance that had been rekindled during the summer of 1922 was indeed a fling to remember, but truly nothing could compare to the romance that first bloomed in 1917.

**Hello, readers! This is my very first publishing on this site. That being said, I'd absolutely love to get some feedback. I'm also considering writing a story based on Gatsby and Daisy's initial romantic rendezvous in 1917 (when the first met). If that last line seems a little "out of place" to you, that's why. Let me know what you think about writing the 1917 story! Many thanks.**


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